


My Grave Will Warmer, Sweeter Be

by wallflowers



Series: Soft Memory Errors [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Simanzi, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowers/pseuds/wallflowers
Summary: “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.“I am too, kid.”Later, this would be known as the Fifth Wave of the Simanzi Massacre. In this moment, Ratchet only knew it as the end of the line, for all of them, so it seemed.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Soft Memory Errors [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810837
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	My Grave Will Warmer, Sweeter Be

[ Memory Selected_File: **C_01_1378.mf** ]

[ **Recall?** ]

**>** **Yes** >No

[ Now Recalling: **C_01_1378.mf** ]

The winds gently swayed the tinposies among the rubble, their petals fluttering delicately moments before they were crushed beneath Ratchet’s feet. A siren wailed through the hot air, a drone to the cacophony of gunfire and bombs. An explosion rattled the air, hot and sweltering. In the distance, the blackened hallowed husk of the city stood, an effigy wreathed in firelight and the thick, fragrant, offal-heady smoke that cloyed the night.

**⚠** ** OIL FUELSAGE COMPROMISED | 12%**

**⚠** ** WEAKNESS DETECTED | SPINAL FRACTURE: T5 **

Later, this would be known as the Fifth Wave of the Simanzi Massacre. In the moment Ratchet only knew it as the end of the line; for all of them, so it seemed. The battle had long ceased making sense, turning into a creature of its own, of sound and smoke and ember and the distant flashes of gunfire. It was impossible to tell who was killing whom, each now simply fighting for their own lives. The dead littered the battlefield. Cybertron itself was coming to an end, in an indiscriminate doomsday. He couldn’t get a fix on where the pit he was, other than _in_ the Pit. His perspective was littered with messages as his medic protocols reacted indiscriminately to every soldier that lay dying on the field, flashing, insistent.

**⚠** ** WEAKNESS DETECTED | SHOULDER STRUT MISALIGNED**

**⚠** ** PLATING INTEGRITY COMPROMISED | INTEGRITY 56%**

**⚠** ** OIL FUELSAGE COMPROMISED | 51%**

**⚠** ** WEAKNESS DETECTED | FUEL PUMP RUPTURE: POST PULSARY LINE, CORNARY SULCUS LINE**

Footsteps slowing to a halt, Ratchet planted his hands on his knees, doubled over as he tried to vent the heat trapped in his venting, forcing air past the detritus and smoke that blackened the insides of his vents. He shunted the diagnostic alerts to the side, to join the stack of thousands that had accumulated there, too tired to handle the information, too numbed for it to register. He thought had seen death, had seen ruin, throughout the course of their war—nothing, _nothing,_ compared to this. Lifting his hands, Ratchet looked at his hands, at the energon that coated them.

**⚠** **PROXIMTY ALERT**

Too late he heard the whistling fall of another bomb, closing in too quickly to do anything other than brace himself. There was movement in his field of vision, and Ratchet had no time to react before the weight of another abruptly hit him, shoving them both out of way as the incendiary hit the ground and exploded, turning a nearby fallen soldier to shrapnel. Ratchet landed on an incline, loose debris beneath his back-struts sending them tumbling. They came to rest in a cloud of dust. Ratchet groaned, force-cleared his vents, and lifted his head to see who’s weight settled atop him. The mech’s head lifted, unmistakable amber optics meeting his own.

Deadlock pushed off of him with a rattling cough. Ratchet watched as he stumbled to his feet, weary in every strut. Deadlock’s frame was littered with burns, leisions marring the protoform, plating deeply dented in the few parts it had held. He was missing a spaulder, his shoulder a sparking, weeping wound. The smile Deadlock offered him could barely be called that, a subtle twitch at the edges of split-swollen lips, melancholy and wry. Energon stained his chin. His guns were nowhere to be found. He was still achingly lovely, somehow, lit by the bomb-shorn embers of the dead.

“So this is it, huh?” Deadlock’s voice was hoarse, the hints of hysterical laughter fraying the edges of it.

“Seems like it,” Ratchet responded numbly.

There was another whistle in the air, coming closer with every second, and Ratchet moved without thinking; he got to his feet, gathered Deadlock into his arms, and sprinted. He threw them both beneath a collapsed overpass mere paces away, an unbent metal beam caught on another leaving a space hidden beneath just large enough for them both. The detonation would have been deafening had Ratchet not already damaged his hearing while attempting to fight death on the war-field. The heat washed over them, molten-hot flakes of burning metal striking against the plating of his legs, leaving scorch marks across his plating.

They clutched at each other tightly in the darkness, Deadlock’s arms caging Ratchet’s helm as he though he could protect him from whatever blow may come. Ratchet had tucked the gunner against the sturdier wall of their found bomb shelter, trying to cover as much of the other’s frame with his own as he could, desperately tracking every beat of his spark, the subtle thrumming of his frame, the feeling of someone _alive_ in his arms. Among the dead, in the internals of the flourishing ossuary. For how long, neither knew. Deadlock and Ratchet easily could both be dead in a matter of moments. The _crack-bang_ of another detonation. The walls of their makeshift shelter rattled around them. Ratchet didn't want to think about who Deadlock may have killed in this battle. Ratchet didn't want to think about all the people he himself may have killed, in his failure to heal them. He didn't want to think about much of anything. To pit with it all. If he was going to die here, in the least it would be in the arms of a mech he cared about. 

Deadlock’s hand slipped from the back of his helm to his cheek, prompting Ratchet to pull away just enough to be able to look him in the optics. The strength and vigor that Deadlock wore as an armor were gone, left behind by the fear that had seized Ratchet’s spark as well.

Grasping the back of his neck, Ratchet pulled Drift to him and pressed their lips together. It was soft, bittersweet, lingering and overdue, punctuated by the frantic apologies Drift whispered between each kiss. Ratchet hushed him, but the kiss was interrupted by the tilt of his own lips downwards as despair wrenched his features into the sorrow. Gentle claws at the back of his helm tucked his face into the side of neck cables as Drift gathered him close. In the darkness of traded breaths and the crack of bombshells, they lay intertwined and waited to die.

**⚠** **PROXIMTY ALERT**

“I’m sorry,” Drift whispered again.

“I am too, kid.”

_But when you come, and all the flowers are dying,_

_If I am dead, as dead I well may be,_

_You'll come and fin_ ̸̖͗ _d_ ̷͙̐̈́ͅ _the place where I am lying,_

 _And kee_ ̶ _l and say a prayer there fo_ ̴̯̅̈̀ _r me._

_And I shall hear, though s ő̷̧̹̩̪_ _ft you tread above me,_

_And a_ ̶ _l_ ̸ _l_ ̶ ̴ _m_ ̶ _y_ ̷ _grave w_ ̵̹̤̍̂̚ _i_ ̷̙̅̿͋ _ll wa_ ̷̻̀̔̌̕͝ _rmer, swe_ ̷ _e_ ̸ _t_ ̵ _e_ ̶ _r_ ̷ _be,_

 _F_ ̵͉͆ _o_ ̸̧̐ _r_ ̵̩̾ ̷̷͉͉̄̄y̸͍͗o̶̠̚u̵̱̿ _will bend a_ ̷̻̀̔̌̕͝ _nd tell me y_ ̴̨̜̳̇͂͑͜ _o_ ̷̧̹̩̪̋ _u_ ̵̟̭̥̗͐̅͠ ̶̧̹̪͔͊͛̈́́ _l_ ̶̞̔͂͛͝ _o_ ̴̳̈́͆ _v_ ̷͖͌͝ _e_ ̴̢̡̑̏ ̸̖̈́ _m_ ̸̀̋͜ _e_ ̴̼̱̔̎̒̚ _,_ ̵̡̘̽́̐

 _A_ ̸̮̻̻̟̑̑͆̍ _n_ ̶͎̭͓̟͔̩͗̋̄͜ _d_ ̶̨̧̤͓͇̝̗͉͑͐̎̾̾͠͝ ̶̧͖̑̽̑́̐͗ _a_ ̷̻̀̔̌̕͝ _l_ ̴̜̄͋̕͝ _o_ ̶̡̧̣̭̬̟̩̦̤̪̋̒̓̐̔̌͜ _n_ ̵̨̡̭̮͕͔̘̥͖̗̫̉̂̑ _e_ ̷̨̘͉̖̲͖̱̪̖͐̈́̈́̇ ̴̬̲̥̠̃͒̏̾͐͑̀͠ _I_ ̷̧̦͓͖̫̱̩̖̼̮̰͂́̍̎̓̐̈͋͘ ̴̹͇̘̱̻̃͗̇̐͑̎̐̉͆̿ _s_ ̶̹̹͍͙̲̦͒̇͆̕ _h_ ̴̱̰̣̱͓̱̄̍͆̕ _a_ ̴̢̜̩̃̍̊̓̒̈̇͊̕͠͝ _l_ ̵̡̞̩̩̞͔̩͉͎̘̮̇̀̎͋̅ _l_ ̶̡̭̭̩̹̤͙͒̑̐̽̄̉ ̶̹̘̯̗̻͔͍̼̳̄̆͆̓̊̌̌̕͠ _s_ ̵̛͎̘̼͎̍͛̇͋͋ _l_ ̶̘̗͇̈́͗̔͒̍̎͠ _e_ ̸̨̛̻̼͉̘̈͒́̅ _e_ ̵̨͇̝̘͊̑̔͋̍̚ _p_ ̵̛̠͉̘̠̖͗͆̉͋̓͘ ̸̨̗͎̠̗̩͎̠͎̱͊͊̈̈́̍́ _u_ ̷͎̗͍̫̯̜̓ _n_ ̵̭̰̣͆͂̅̉͛̅͊͋͝͝ _t_ ̷̣͙̫̘̦̫̏̏̊͛͜ _i_ ̷̧̫̖̘̰͍̩͚̽̊͌̈́̅̅̓͆̂͝ _l_ ̸͕͍̳̖͇͓̽̏̀̀͗͝ ̵̧̠͕̤͇̭̙͎͔̆̂͜͜ _y_ ̵̧̹̒ _o_ ̷͔͑̊ _u_ ̸͍̦̻̏͐ ̴͕̬̖̳̔́͑ _c_ ̶̝̫͔͉̓̽̚͘ _o_ ̸͍̿ _m_ ̴͍̆̈́́͊̐͠ _e_ ̵̪̒̐͐͋́̇͝ ̸̧̣̼̯̖͍͚͇̓͂͘ͅ _t_ ̶̻͂ _o_ ̸͍̿ ̵̨̩͇͉̱̰̹̕͝ͅ _m_ ̸̓̈͘ͅ _e_ ̴̡͚̱̤̮͕̓̆̎̃͐́̍̚ _._ ̶̖͖̤͍̹̮̬̮̠̜͉̔̾̾̀͌͛̽̾

 _C_ ̷͓̞̲͓̗̗̠̣̣̭͛͛̈́̿̌̈́̀̆͌͘̕͝͠ _o_ ̶̻͔̰̑̓̾̈́̎̑̏̏̓͛̈̄͋̋͠ _m_ ̶̛̩͍̤͋̿̒̒̂͒̀͒͘͘͝ _e_ ̷̯͇̼͔̅̿̓͒͛̽̌͜ ̸̢̝͇͈̘̲͉̹͓̩̗͇̌̈́̆̀̋̕ͅ _t_ ̴̧̳̳̙͉̅̈́̌ͅ _o_ ̵̧̲̫̳͛̈́͌̊ ̷͚̣̲̞̰̖̯̝͖͝ _m_ ̷̘̪̀̐̋̌͑͐͝͝ _e_ ̶̢̢̛̰͔̹͖͍̠͈̬͐͋̄͂̑̿̔̎̕ͅ _,_ ̴̢̢̣̹̻̘̖̪͂̈́͒̈͂ͅ ̸̢͚̉͝ _c_ ̶̡̢̛̲̳͚̣͔̟͔̖̹͓̠̎̀͛͆̎̇̉͠͝ _o_ ̴̢̫̳͓̩̭̲͆́̕͝ _m_ ̵̧̢̩͖͙̖̬̥̟̙͙̲̹͕̏̕ _e_ ̸̨͙̲̙̯̮͖̦͉̈͐͋͂̚ ̶̲̻͖̠̙̹̭͔͎̠͚͛́̈́͗͑͒̅̐̀͌͝͝ _t_ ̸̨̫̮̖͔͖̓ _o_ ̸̱̜̱͎̠͕̹̤̻͔̥̞̺̄̾ ̸̱͙̱̟̠̍̆̇̔̇̈͑̑̈͂̌̈́͝ _m_ ̶̡̫͓͙̲̮̺͍̺̤̐͂̇̽̉͆̔̀̔͌̎͌̑͘ͅ _e_ ̴̨͍͈͕̥̠͓̇̅͗̓̍̏͑̓̒̅͜ _._ ̵̳̫̙̰̗̦̻͛̾̄̀̂̃̃̽̈́͊̅͌

**[ End Record ]**

[ Memory Selected_File: **C_01_1378.mf** ]

[ **Delete Memory?** ]

…

…

…

>Yes **>** **No**

[ File Retained ]


End file.
